


being blue is better (than being over it)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e10 Maveth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6154613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma has a surprising conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being blue is better (than being over it)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm both very relieved and very sad about this. I've been trying to write this literally since the night the midseason finale aired, so it's nice to have it finished--but it's also not nearly what I planned. Originally it was supposed to be part of a much longer fic, but writing's been like pulling teeth for me lately and I really wanted to get this posted before the hiatus ends, so...*shrug* Maybe I'll write more if my muse ever stops hating me?
> 
> Fair warning, this is mostly self-indulgent nonsense. If you don't like my HYDRA OCs, this probably isn't for you.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

As the restroom door swings closed behind her, Jemma sighs heavily in relief—not for the state of the restroom (although it _is_ remarkably clean; far better than she would have expected from this sort of diner), but for the privacy.

She thought she was ready to go on a mission with Coulson again. In fact, she _was_ ready. It’s just too bad that the signs of potential Inhuman presence he brought her out to investigate turned out to be what he called “Inhumanly good” food at a little corner diner sixty miles from the Playground.

She should have expected it, really. He did the same thing when she first got back last year, inventing missions as an excuse to spend some time with her—father-daughter bonding, Skye called it cheekily. With SHIELD in the state it is these days, it’s impossible to build the strong familial relationship they enjoyed on the Bus with all of the new agents, but Coulson does his best to at least maintain those bonds amongst the team. It’s actually very sweet; Jemma has always thought so.

Unfortunately, it’s also very _soon_.

She knows what happened on the planet wasn’t Coulson’s fault. She’s watched the recordings of his and Fitz’s debriefs with May a dozen times, and she knows Grant didn’t leave him any choice. It was pure self-defense.

That doesn’t make it any easier to bear.

Grant was a murderer and a traitor, an unrepentant kidnapper, and a whole host of other things besides. He ended and ruined countless innocent lives, tried to kill Andrew, and tortured and very nearly killed Bobbi. He _took over HYDRA_ , for goodness’ sake. Less than a year of marriage should _not_ be able to counteract that—and when he was alive, it didn’t.

Now that he’s dead, however…

Well. She doesn’t want to dwell on it—can’t, really, not without becoming horribly and mortifyingly weepy—but the fact of the matter is, it was a lot easier to hate her ex-husband when he was out in the world doing terrible things. Now that he’s gone forever, pushing away the love her heart has stubbornly clung to since the uprising isn’t just difficult, it’s nearly impossible. Every time she tries to focus on his crimes, to remind herself of death and fear, her mind wanders to happier days—to the particular smile he reserved solely for her, to falling asleep to the rhythm of his heart, to the way he brightened her darkest days…

The point is, hating Grant is now a significant challenge—and so, therefore, is forgiving Coulson for taking his life.

She’ll manage it eventually, she’s certain. She _knows_ he did the right thing; it’s only a matter of convincing her heart. In the meantime, though, things are dreadfully tense, and smiling and laughing and acting casual over the course of this lunch has been beyond draining.

Thus, her escape to the privacy of the ladies’ room.

She gives herself a few minutes to simply breathe, to _feel_ without needing to worry about what’s showing on her face, and then reluctantly decides it’s time to return to the table. Coulson will get worried if she’s gone too long; the whole team has been especially jumpy about her safety lately.

She uses the excuse of washing her hands—the only hygienic thing to do, truly, after eating at a greasy diner like this one—to justify lingering a few moments longer, but she knows that’s really all she can afford.

She’s just drying her hands—and steeling herself to return to Coulson—when the door swings open. As she bins her paper towels, she glances absently at the mirror…and freezes.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Aldridge says.

Jemma scoffs as she turns to face her. “You don’t truly expect me to believe that, do you?”

“It’s the truth.” Aldridge gives her a pouty look. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I depended upon you for companionship and conversation while I was being held prisoner,” Jemma says. “That doesn’t make us friends—especially as you were _actively involved_ in keeping me there.”

“Which I did without hurting you,” Aldridge points out triumphantly, as though the _degree_ to which she helped imprison Jemma is a compelling point. “I could’ve killed—or at least severely maimed—you while you were escaping, but I didn’t. I let you get away.”

Jemma would be willing to bet a significant amount of money that Aldridge was only following orders in that regard, but continuing this conversation can only lead directly to thoughts of Grant. The six weeks she spent as his prisoner— _guest_ , he always insisted, as though terminology made any difference—were the last real time she had with him, aside from two very brief conversations before he went through to the planet.

That way lies only misery. So it’s best to cut this short.

“We’ll pretend for the sake of argument that I believe you won’t hurt me,” she says. “In which case, I assume I’m free to leave.”

In response, Aldridge steps silently aside from the door, and Jemma—though certainly suspicious—wastes no time in going through it.

She comes to an abrupt stop on the other side, however, because Markham is waiting for her.

First one of Grant’s favorite specialists, now his (former) second-in-command? (She wonders briefly whether Markham’s taken over HYDRA, or if he’s content to play deputy to Malick the way he did to Grant.) Jemma has a terrible feeling about this.

Some of it must show on her face, because Markham raises his hands innocently.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” he promises, and she casts a suspicious glance over her shoulder at Aldridge, who’s followed her out.

“Yes,” she says, “so I’ve heard.” She crosses her arms. “Assuming it’s true, why _are_ you here?”

“It’s about Ward,” Aldridge says, and Jemma’s heart constricts painfully.

No one says that name anymore. Her team is always so careful about it; she knows they’re all relieved, if not downright overjoyed, that he’s dead, but they’ve all been very considerate. They haven’t come out and asked whether she still had feelings for Grant, despite everything—which is a relief, as she’s really not certain what her answer would be (which is troubling in and of itself)—but they seem to be working under the assumption that she did.

They never celebrate his death or badmouth him—they never speak of him at all within Jemma’s hearing. And none of them ever got into the habit of calling her by his name, even though she did lay claim to it for a good portion of their time on the Bus.

She’s always Jemma or Simmons and Grant is nothing at all, because he’s dead and no one ever talks about him. It surprises her just how much it _hurts_ to have him so casually mentioned now.

“What about him?” she asks, a touch roughly. “He’s dead.”

“That’s the thing,” Aldridge says, voice low and urgent. “He’s not…exactly.”

Tears sting at Jemma’s eyes, and she doesn’t bother to dash them away. Having been personally involved in keeping her against her will, Markham and Aldridge have both seen her in a variety of undignified states. Being a bit teary-eyed is nothing.

And in any case, it’s entirely their fault. What a horribly cruel thing to say.

“Yes, he is,” she says. Her voice shakes, and even she can’t be certain whether it’s from grief or fury. She’s feeling plenty of both. “Coulson killed him on the planet. He died there.”

“No, yeah, Coulson definitely killed him,” Aldridge says, as Markham’s face darkens. “But he didn’t…um…” She grimaces, seeming suddenly to lose her nerve. “Markham? You wanna take this?”

He flicks her an exasperated glance, then focuses on Jemma, expression melting into something oddly reassuring in its solemnity. He’s a very _steady_ man, Markham. Even as the enemy, there’s just something trustworthy about him.

It’s part of what makes him so dangerous.

“Ward might be dead,” he says seriously, “but his body made it back from the planet. The Inhuman that was there with you—the one Malick wanted—came back wearing him like a suit.”

Jemma’s blood ices over. Black spots dance at the edge of her vision.

“No,” she says, and it seems her voice comes from very far away. “No, you—you’re lying.”

It can’t be. It _can’t_. Will _died_ to keep the creature from reaching Earth. It took his body, but Fitz killed It. It’s dead.

It’s not walking around possessing her dead husband. It’s _not_.

“I’m sorry,” Aldridge says, wrapping a steadying arm around Jemma’s shoulders. “I really, really wish we were.”

Jemma reaches for something— _anything_ —other than the sickening shock, and finds anger.

“You expect me to believe that?” she demands, jerking away. “You’re HYDRA, and HYDRA worships that—that _thing_. We know for a fact you’ve been sending sacrifices to it for centuries. This is _exactly_ what you’ve always wanted.”

“We’re not loyal to HYDRA,” Markham snaps, sharply enough to startle her out of her anger. She’s never heard him so emotional. “We’re loyal to Ward.”

“Right,” Aldridge agrees, equally fierce. “We’re not about to serve some freak just because he’s wearing Ward’s face—and we’re not gonna stand aside and let him keep using it.”

“Either we’re bringing him back,” Markham says, “or we’re killing the son of a bitch trying to take his place.”

For a long moment, she simply stares at them, stunned and absurdly touched. There’s a little kernel of—oh, _something_ —in her heart, and it bubbles with joy to witness the loyalty Grant’s people have for him.

But that’s not all that’s bubbling in her. There’s something else, something far more dangerous and even more out of place: hope.

“Coulson killed him,” she says again, as much for her own ears as theirs. “You can’t bring him back.”

“Says who?” Aldridge asks. “Coulson came back to life, didn’t he? Why not Ward?”

There are a number of glaring flaws in that argument—not least of which is that Coulson was brought back to life by the _old_ SHIELD, which had several hundred times the resources and capabilities of the new—but the hope in Jemma’s chest doesn’t care. It expands, so much so that she actually feels as though her lungs have fully inflated for the first time since she found out Grant was dead.

“We know it’s not that simple,” Markham says, perhaps anticipating the objections she would voice if she were in any normal state of mind, “but we have to try.” He pauses. “And we need your help.”

“If anyone can figure out how to get that thing out of Ward, it’s you,” Aldridge agrees.

There are a number of things Jemma should say to that, most of them rude and all of them cutting. But before she can reach for them—before she can even begin to decide which should be voiced first—the part of her which has mourned every night spent sleeping alone takes over.

It’s wrong and unforgiveable and completely insane. Grant wasn’t, perhaps, the _greatest_ threat SHIELD has faced since the uprising, but he was certainly the most enduring. If she brings him back, the team will never— _should_ never—forgive her.

But though she has withstood imprisonment, torture, and the collapse of her entire life, she simply can’t stand up to her own hope. She hasn’t the strength…or even, guiltily, the inclination.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” she promises, and follows them out the diner’s back door without another thought.


End file.
